


May Day

by praiseofshadows



Series: that arthurian series I'm not writing [3]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4716524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/praiseofshadows/pseuds/praiseofshadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wasteland, the enemy had known all of Galahad’s weaknesses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May Day

After the Easter feast, it is plain to all that Galahad is safe from certain death, though there is some debate as to whether this is due to the queen’s masses or to Mordred’s sorcery.

The king, tiring of Mordred’s womanish desire to stay at Galahad’s bedside, makes clear that he considers Mordred’s duties as chamberlain to be paramount. As Mordred has painstakingly trained up three clerks in the arts of double-entry bookkeeping, the bankruptcy that threatened the kingdom after Sir Ector’s untimely death is unlikely, with or without Mordred’s day-to-day oversight. Nevertheless, those that remember the days of clipped coins and starving peasantry breathe safer when Mordred is at his desk in the treasury.

Guinevere, intrigued by the results of her purchased prayers, turns her hand to healing and sends the prettiest of her handmaids to nurse Galahad, their girlish hearts a-fluttering at the thought of tending to such a well-made knight. 

It is no secret the court hopes for a match; after all, many a maid has met a noble husband whilst tending at his bedside. And now that Galahad’s quest has ended, he would not be forsworn if he took a bride. But they hope in vain, for on the first of May, Galahad declares himself cured by the grace of God and quits the sickroom for good. 

#

In the wasteland, the enemy had known all of Galahad’s weaknesses. After the first flaxen haired damosel had failed to tempt, the apparitions had all been sloe-eyed youths, armed in chain mail but uncoifed. They would beckon from their conjured pavilions, the white samite of their surcoats setting off their raven-dark hair to best advantage.

“Sir knight,” the simulacra would say in their stolen voices, their familiar heart-shaped faces sharp with longing. “Stay awhile and take your rest. There is wine and a beautifully made up bed.” They would lower their lashes, coquettish, and add, “And there is me.”

When their supplications and seductions failed, they would laugh, the self-same laugh Mordred had learned from his mother: all meanness and no heart. “You don’t think he’s chastely waiting like a wife, d’you?” they would jeer, their mouths no less luscious for their poisoned words. “You can’t possibly think that he actually _cares_. He’ll play the woman for anyone, so long as they have a ready prick with which to fuck him.”

#

It was the eyes the enemy could never get quite right; the perfect shade of green eluded. And as the gospels said, if the eyes were bad, the body was filled with darkness.

#

This May Day morning, Mordred’s eyes are strangely clear. He is at his desk in the treasury and not – as Galahad had feared – already dissipated on wine filched from Sir Kai’s best cellars. The three clerks are nowhere to be seen. Even Mordred’s long-suffering squire is gone, no doubt away with his father Sir Gawain in Winchester.

“So they’ve let you out,” Mordred says, without looking up from the accounts.

“I’d like to believe I let myself out,” Galahad says, “but I am sure I owe my freedom to Dame Ragnelle.”

“Ah, the ever-obliging chaperone,” Mordred says. “We can’t have the queen’s maids untimely un-maidened, at least not without the banns announced.” He continues to look at the accounts. “And of course, you must actually have a proper healer if you are to do any healing.”

“Thank you for that,” Galahad says because he’s not so naïve as the court thinks, and he knows Mordred had a hand in ensuring Dame Ragnelle’s attendance.

“I’m sure I have no idea,” Mordred says. “With my lord brother gone to Winchester, my good-sister was in need of a diversion. And the queen could not possibly allow Dame Brangaine chaperoning duties. Foxes and henhouses, you know.”

Galahad is struck by the sudden realisation that the last six days could have been far, far worse. _Of course_ Guinevere would want Dame Brangaine to chaperone, what with Brangaine’s love-philters and love of weddings.

Mordred smiles as he looks up, a smile full of mischief but quite devoid of any malice. It is the smile Galahad most loves and so rarely sees. “Why you look quite horrified, sir knight,” he says, “I cannot imagine why.” 

#

The row between the king and Mordred ere the king left for Winchester had been particularly fierce and had ended with the king so incensed that he quite forgot himself and called Mordred by his mother’s name instead of Mordred’s own.

“I am not she,” Mordred had screamed at the king’s retreating back. “I am _not_.”

Galahad had heard this all in hurried whispers from Dame Ragnelle, who most certainly heard the story from Sir Gawain’s own lips. Sir Gawain had not wanted to away to Winchester, but the king had demanded it. 

“He is my liege lord,” Sir Gawain had once told Galahad, “and he stands for decency and honour, and he will always have my loyalty. But by the virgin, I cannot forgive him for what he’s done to my brother.”

Galahad does not remember a time before Arthur. He knows it was a time of lawlessness, when no maid’s virtue was safe and all lands were up for the taking, provided that one had a steady sword-hand and a brigand ready for the pillaging. He only knows the Logres that Arthur made, the Logres where laws are just and all men are united under the banner of chivalry. And so he will never truly understand why good and true men like Sir Gawain will ride with the king to the gates of hell.

#

Mordred tilts his head, considering. Whatever he sees on Galahad’s face he must mislike for his smile dies in slow degrees. “What troubles you?” he asks. 

“The king,” Galahad says, but that’s not quite right. He tries again: “And you.” 

“The king and I shall never be made right. This you know.” Mordred sighs and then stands up. He rubs at the back of his neck and Galahad realises that Mordred is exhausted. Likely he’s been in the treasury all night. 

And though it is never a wise thing to tell Mordred what to do, Galahad says, “We are leaving.”

Mordred rises from his chair and walks towards Galahad in slow, measured steps. “I have spent a great many May Days without you, sir knight. You need not worry about finding me dead in a ditch.”

“That’s not what I mean, Mordred, and you know it. The king should not --” And that’s a mistake, but Galahad cannot recall his ill-chosen words any more than an archer can recall an loosed arrow.

“Ah,” Mordred says. He stops his progress towards Galahad, just out of reach. “Kings do as they will. “ He smiles again, though this time it is the smile Galahad likes least: twisted and bitter as rue. “Am I not proof of that?”

#

In the damnable aftermath of Corbenic, it had been the memory of Mordred’s face rather than the cross that had sustained him. 

#

“Walk with me,” Galahad says and extends his hand.


End file.
